


C'est La Vie

by ninamalfoy



Series: Changing Skies [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>So he now has returned to the one man from this past he never could forget; never had been able to, really.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	C'est La Vie

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on January 25th, 2007.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> First part of the _Changing Skies_ trilogy, edited and polished up version. The old version (only very minor changes, though) can be found [here](http://owls-in-winter.livejournal.com/5674.html). The next parts will be _A Moment of Eternity_ and _From Faraway, With Love_.
> 
> Firstly, a big shout-out goes to my original beta, cerulean_eyes, because she was there all the time, supporting me all throughout this story and her help proved invaluable with some scenes and she did a great beta job. Love you, Niña. And then I want to thank my omega, the fantastic jeanne_alouette, who contributed her free time and her vast professional experience to turn this story into a shining gem. Thank you so very much, really, for your dedicated work! *smiles and blows kisses*

Metze gives the cab driver a generous tip and heaves his travelling bag out of the backseat of the car. Basti's hotel hasn't changed much in all these years; the only difference he can see right away is the expansion of the parking lot and the newly tiled roof.

He can't pinpoint exactly what he's feeling now that he has arrived at his destination. And he doesn't know what drove him to book a single room for an extended weekend at Basti's hotel, although he suspects it's one of his more successful attempts at lying to himself.

He sighs.

Time does fly, especially if you are always busy _trying_ to forget the past and everything that went with it: his successful soccer career that came to an abrupt end after the damn Achilles' heel got injured once more, just before the World Cup started. Though the doctors did work wonders the first time, they agreed unanimously that it'd really need a whole new foot; the sinews were too wasted and he would be lucky if the only thing remaining from the injury was a slight limp, barely noticeable but nevertheless very effective in blocking him from ever getting back into his career again. So he had gracefully retired, at the age of 25, and would forever be hailed as one of the most promising defenders, probably the best German defender, if not for…

He hadn't attended or watched the World Cup games. Instead, he had taken a few months off and travelled around the world, finally visiting the orphans' homes in Sri Lanka that RoterKeil supported, seeing the children's misery and happiness with own eyes. He had met the Dalai Lama, watched kangaroos in Australia, photographed the sea lilies at the Victoria Lake, talked with snake charmers in India; in short, he saw all the exotic things that he had only read or dreamt of as a little boy. And it was exactly what he needed, anything to occupy his mind and to distract himself from the shatters that were his life at that point.

After his return he had enrolled at the Bochum university and finally did what he always would have done if he hadn't become a soccer player – got an excellent business diploma grade. Then he went to work for RoterKeil, which had become an important fixture in his life, and various other goodwill organisations. It's not that he needs the money; actually, he has more than enough to live comfortably, but he knows that he isn't cut out for sitting around at home and twiddling his thumbs.

He doesn't attend any Bundesliga games anymore even though he owns a life-long ticket for the Borussia Dortmund games. One reason is the curious reporters who would read just about anything into his reason for being there; the other reason is that there's still this ache, this longing for the beautiful game. It's hard to grasp – even after all this time, though six years really aren't so long – that he'll be on the sidelines forever; there are players around who have been granted at least ten more years on the pitch than he got. He supposes he should be grateful that he could play top-flight football for as long as he did, after all. But he dreams of this past he's trying so hard to forget; he's on the pitch, tackling oncoming strikers, securing the defense, striking forward to pass the ball to the midfielders, keeping an overview of the game, reassuring his teammates, yelling himself hoarse whenever his team has scored a goal, and then finds himself hugging someone, both of them sweatysticky, but exhilarated at winning the beautiful game – and the one he hugs, grinning broadly, feeling as if he's on top of the world and nothing could bring him down, this one always turns out to be _Basti_. Always. And he wakes up, sitting up in bed, breathing heavily, cold sweat drying on his back, and his body is aching for Basti's warmth. And the emptiness of his bed is almost too much to bear.

So now he has returned to the one man from this past he never could forget, never has been able to, really. And he still has to figure out if it's the most stupid decision he's ever made.

After watching the cab drive away, Christoph walks up the steps to the entrance door. The decor of the hall still looks very much like back then, when he was here with Basti – how long ago that now seems. But the receptionist at the desk isn't anyone he knows, a perky young blonde instead of Basti's mother. He approaches her. "A single room for Christoph Metzelder, please."

She looks up at him from the reservations book. "Welcome, Mr Metzelder." Her voice is sweet and the smile to go along with the greeting doesn't hurt, either. "Mr Kehl has insisted that you get the double room no. 41. Here's the key."

She eyes him curiously, but doesn't ask any questions. Metze smiles and thanks her and turns to the stairs, the cold metal badge attached to the key warming in his slightly sweaty palm.

Room 41. The same room they had shared that one time when he still was on the road back to fitness from his first Achilles' heel injury and had decided to call and ask if he could drop by Basti's, knowing full well that he was at his parents' in Lahrbach but not caring, wanting only to see his best friend. And wanting to touch his lover. And Basti had invited him readily enough, persuading his parents to let them have a double room and then dangling the same key in front of him when he had gotten off the train in Fulda, saying: _"Did the Herr order a double room? Why, yes, certainly, and the room service is at your beck and call,"_ and Metze, surprised at his best friend's daring, had to laugh and suddenly everything seemed a lot brighter and more carefree.

This weekend had been one of their best times together. Especially waking up together comfortably, not having to get up just before the wake-up call to jump into their own beds so no one would suspect anything going on, or not having to sleep apart because some hotel beds were just about comfortable enough for a man, but certainly not for two, no matter how much they tried.

Opening the door to the room, Metze can't help smiling. It still looks like it used to; but no, the TV is new, or rather not so new, but it's a standard plasma model and has replaced the idyllic forest scene that was hanging on the wall before. The walls have been repainted, now a light green instead of white.

He puts the bag on the bed and opens the balcony door, steps out. It's one of the last warm autumn days, the forest's green already turning into yellow and in some places red, warm hues foretelling the end of a long pleasant summer. The ache he usually feels when he thinks of Basti, recalls their times together, has lessened now, and Metze suspects that it's because by being here, he has somehow travelled back in time, back to the weekend that they spent here. Basti will step through the door any time now, a happy smile on his lips, and he'll envelop Metze from behind, having to stretch a bit to rest his chin on Metze's shoulder, and he'll ask "Fancy staying here and missing dinner?" and Metze'll grin and say "Are you that edible?" and Basti will say "Try me…" and - but these times are in the past now, Christoph reminds himself.

Anyway, Basti knows he's here. Has given him the old room, too – why, just for old times' sake? That would make the most sense, Metze guesses, but Basti could be rather enigmatic, too.

"Do you like it?"

Speak of the devil…

Metze just stands still for a moment, but then he turns around, slowly, drawn to the man who uttered these words. Basti's in the doorway, regarding him with something playing on his lips – it isn't a smile, but not a frown, either.

Metze's throat feels dry all of a sudden and he has to swallow. Basti's here, just a few steps away from him, but it feels like he's miles and miles away. So much has changed.

After all, it wasn't something he could avoid, keeping track of what happened to Basti. His best friend went on playing soccer, becoming the new captain of the BVB, the one things revolved around, the one who kept the team together. He got chosen for the World Cup 2006, too, and proved that he truly was one to be relied on, got lauded as a new bright star in the sky of German soccer, especially when the BVB won the German championship a year after that.

And thus, due to his popularity, news about him was hard to escape. It got even worse after he suddenly ended his career at the height of his game, which raised much speculation. Just after he won the championship with the BVB, he had stepped back from the game with saying, "It's enough." And nothing, no amount of begging, cajoling or downright bribing could make him reconsider his decision, much to everyone's consternation.

He hasn't changed much outwardly. The same boyish features still are evident, though there are some lines around his mouth and his eyes that Metze doesn't remember, or they weren't that prominent before. But then, both men have aged; they're now in their early thirties.

"Very," Metze replies, hesitantly.

"Glad to hear that," Basti says, and with these words he steps into the room. At the click of the door Metze straightens up – after all, he's the one who came here. The one who has to explain himself.

"I don't know what to say," he admits, searching for something, anything in Basti's guarded look. He doesn't know how far he can go, how careful he should be, and he realizes there's a very good reason people say 'let sleeping dogs lie'. But it's too late now.

"You're not alone in that," Basti replies. Although it has been years since they last saw each other, Metze easily recognizes the strain in Basti's shoulders, which belies his underlying nervousness. Basti is as out of his depth as he is.

"Well, yeah." Metze takes one step forward, closer to the room and closer to Basti. And one more. Until he's stepping into the room, the cool breeze from outside cooling the sweat on his back. His hands stuffed deep into his pockets – he never has been able to break that habit, he says the one thing he has always wanted to say.

"I'm sorry." _For how things turned out, for…_ "So am I," Basti replies quickly, his eyes never wavering. And there it is again, this pull, this… magnetic draw. Metze hasn't been able to describe it any other way, this thing that connected them, and a hidden part of him is glad it hasn't disappeared, but has persevered through these empty years. And yet another part of him is deeply frightened.

He can't find the right words, so he does the only thing he knows to do – he reaches out, and when his fingertips encounter Basti's cheek, it's an instant earthquake, rolling through his mind and body, disrupting every resolve and steadfastness, and he has to hold onto something, and this turns out to be Basti. Then they're hugging, hard, desperatestraining, and it's like coming home and yet it isn't. Christoph feels like he has woken from a long wearygrey dream into a glaringsharp reality, and Basti does smell exactly like he used to, and every contour of his body silences the bone-deep ache Metze has carried around with him for so long, and then their mouths find each other, bruisinghotclashing.

The taste of Basti is uniquely addictive, and he wants more, delving into Basti's mouth, reclaiming him, relearning him, and Basti's fingers are digging into his back, sliding down to grasp his arse, sending a hotwhite jolt through Metze. Clothes are ripped off, unbuttoned with shaking fingers, hotburning looks get exchanged along with tendersweet touches that leave streaks of want on each other's bodies, no talk except sighs and moans, and then they're toppling backwards onto the bed and Metze has missed _this_, feeling Basti's hardness sliding against his, hotthrobbing, ohsogood, how did he survive so long without this, dizzy desire spiraling up, fasterfaster_faster_, and he catches Basti's lips with his teeth, bitinglicking, expressing his pent-up longing with touch and bite and nip and stroke and Basti's just as desperate as he is, hands roaming wildly over Metze's back, grabbing his arse, hugging him hard, blunt nails digging into Metze's shoulders. From the corner of his eyes he sees something gold glitter and the shock runs through him like a bucket of ice-cold water has been emptied over him – the wedding ring.

But he doesn't stop, no; instead he doubles his efforts, exerting a leveling push so that he's now lying atop Basti, reclaiming his mouth in a hardbruising kiss, _mine_, shifting upwards until he's leaning over Basti, the latter's desperate want visible in the flushed face, the half-lidded eyes. Metze touches his jaw, following the cleancut line down to the throbbing vein in his neck and his mouth follows his finger's trail. He bites down slightly, a little nip, just enough to make Basti crazy, thrashing under him, but Metze has him effectively pinned. He slides his hand down, raising his hips slightly to give him more leeway, the precome already slicking up their dicks and he envelopes them in his hand, hearing Basti moan loudly, his whole body stiffening. Metze has never seen him more beautiful than in the throes of utter ecstasy. Basti's hands card through his hair, force his head down and then their mouths meet again, hotwetwanting, and their cocks jerk hard in Metze's wetslippery palm, and it's fucking perfect. Soclosenow, yes, and the friction is indescribable and it's spiraling up, at a dizzy speed, and Metze can barely keep up with jerking them off, hardfast_faster_desperate, and then it just _snaps_, and it feels as if his body is actually exploding with such exquisite pain - the relief is _almost_ too much. Afterwards, breathing heavily, slumped over Basti, Metze suspects that's what the big bang must've been like. He's still seeing white pinpricks flashing in his vision, like the last sparks from blindingwhite fireworks, searing his mind, leaving behind just sweet oblivion.

He shifts slightly so that he's lying next to Basti, not crushing him but still half-covering him, never wanting to let go, the sweet stink of semen and sweat mingling with the cool air from the half-opened window, and he wants to freeze that moment in time to make it a neverending memory, one that he could live happily forever, never tiring from it.

Basti moves, turning them around so that he's now the one who has a leg slung over Metze, his hand on Metze's chest, and something wethot licks a trail from the neck-shoulder junction up to his ear, making Metze shudder involuntarily. "You still taste the same," Basti says, a note of wonderment creeping into his voice.

"I haven't changed that much," Metze replies, quietly.

Basti looks up at him, a slight smile on his lips, edged with jadedness. "But you have – and so have I."

"Maybe," Metze says, not wanting to face the harsh truth, at least not for the time being, "but _this_ hasn't changed, has it?"

Basti's smile broadens and Metze just has to kiss that delectable mouth. Tracing the contours of Basti's lips delicately, he slides his arms back around Basti's broad shoulders – he has filled out in these years – but Basti hinders him by moving farther up, their groins touching, stickywethot. Metze can't help but moan at the thousandfold sensations rushing through his brain, overpowering sense and decorum. He's clutching at Basti's arse, and it's the most delicious feeling in the world when he feels Basti's cock hardening again, and he knows what he needs.

Forcing his head down, he hisses into Basti's ear, "Take me," and a shudder runs through Basti's body, and then they're looking at each other, and Metze smiles slowly, his eyes conveying his want to Basti – and then Basti's mouth is back on his, but this time it's more intense, more demanding. "Lube's in my toilet bag," he gasps, desiring Basti so much, wanting Basti to make him feel _whole_ again. And then Basti slides off him – not entirely, though, apparently not wanting to lose touch, as if he's afraid – as Metze is – that Metze will dissolve if there's nothing connecting them, like a dream so often dreamt that it's already bleached out and crinkled at the edges, features blurring.

Basti has to stretch to get at Metze's bag and search for the toiletries.Then he's back, straddling Metze's thighs, and Metze greedily drinks in the sight of him – leanmuscled, sweatsheened torso, darkhardnipples, everfucking_beautiful_ – and he wants to imprint it on his retinas forever. Metze grasps the muscled thighs pinning him in place, pushing up into Basti who leans forward, having covered his fingers with the slippery lube, sliding a knee between his thighs. Metze readily parts them, groaning as Basti greedily sucks on that delicate place where his neck and his shoulder join, not having forgotten Metze's turn-ons and kinks, shudders racing through Metze's body. And then the finger is there, pushing down, and then suddenly slipping in, and it's good that Basti is still strong enough to hold him down when he wants to go crazy, thrashing from pure want. Metze hisses something through his teeth, spreading his legs wider, his cock sliding through the come on his stomach, and damn it, why won't Basti hurry up?

As the finger slips out, Metze groans, opening his eyes to see Basti slowly slicking up his dick, looking at him, breathing heavily, and there's so much desperatewant in Basti's eyes. Then he's bending over Metze, guiding himself there, and Metze closes his eyes, biting on his lower lip. Suddenly they're connected again in a single thrust, and it hurts, and Metze has to gasp, reflexively pushing down, a shudder racing through his legs that he has slung high over Basti's back. "Sorrysorrychristoph…," and Basti's trying to pull out again, but Metze won't have that, not now. The pain mingles with the sensations flooding him, and he crosses his legs, his heels digging into Basti's lower spine. Basti gets the message, thrusting again, and againandagainanda… he hits it every time, sends Metze to the fucking stars and back, almosttherebutnotyet, and the slickwethard slapping noise gets louder and louder, reverberating through Metze's mind. Then there's Basti's mouth on his, his hotwet tongue mirroring the act, mercilessly delving into every crevice, and it's too fucking much and Metze can't hold back anymore, grasping Basti's shoulders and feeling his cock jerk hard, spurting onto his chest, shuddering all over; Basti follows him into the whiteblinding oblivion, their moans mingling.

*

When Metze arrives in the dining room, he seems to be the last one; everyone else is already seated. "Your table is over there, Mr Metzelder," says the blonde who was at the reception earlier. She has turned up out of nowhere and points to a small table in the corner, somewhat secluded, and Metze notices that there are two places set. "Mr Kehl will join you shortly," she continues, leading him to the table. A bottle of wine has been uncorked already and Metze, though no wine connoisseur but having gained some experience from dining with assorted promising and not-so-promising business partners, recognizes it as a very good year. It feels as if Basti's wooing him, or at least trying to make up for lost time, and a small smile steals upon his lips.

Earlier, in room no. 41, he had entwined his hand with Basti's and had felt the warm metal of the ring against his skin. He hadn't wanted to ask, but – and then he had lifted the hand onto his chest, looking down at it. It was a warm golden, and it was just a little thing – but it signified so much. "She's away," Basti had said, proving that he still knew Metze – far too well, "but not for long."

"So it's just you and me for now?" Metze had asked, and had felt the small movement of Basti nodding against his shoulder.

Stolen time. But at least it's time only for themselves.

Just as he has seated himself, he hears Basti, telling everyone to enjoy their meal. He turns around and watches Basti working the room, stopping here and there, nodding and smiling and making polite small talk, every inch the professional hotelier. Finally, he's at Metze's table and smiles, "May I sit here?" "As you wish, Basti," Metze grins.

Strangely enough, their conversation isn't hampered by uncomfortable silences. Basti readily tells Metze about how much work the hotel actually is, funny anecdotes and tales about guests and co-workers. Metze listens, commenting here and there, sipping his wine and cutting up the venison, enjoying Basti's voice washing over him, the slight Hessian lilt more noticeable now. From the corner of his eye, he notices other guests looking at them, whispering, perhaps having recognized him from their football days. But he doesn't mind, for once – no, he's happy that he's sitting here, with Basti.

"Somehow I don't think that it was the sad tale of little Katja almost drowning that made you smile like a Cheshire cat," Basti says, an eyebrow raised.

"Sorry, I wasn't listening, Basti," Metze replies, chuckling. Before Basti can retort with an indignant comeback, he adds, "I just was thinking of good memories," and raises his glass.

Basti's eyes darken, and Metze sees a glimmer of hotheavy want, and their glasses clink.

"To good memories," Basti says, smiling. "May they last a lifetime."

*

They've finished the delicious meal, Basti promising Metze that he'll give the cook his compliments and now there's the long-dreaded pause. But before it drags out too long, Basti gets up and says, "Fancy going outside for a walk?" Metze nods. A little walk to digest will do them some good.

Outside, the air is balmy and some leftover warmth from the sun is still lingering in the air, the sky a beautiful lavender blue. It's beautiful and Metze breathes in deeply as he walks at Basti's side, sometimes brushing up against him, but neither of them saying anything. Basti leads them around the hotel, to a small, grass-grown path along the wheatfield that leads to a large meadow with some grazing cows and then to the border of a small forest until they arrive at a stand. Basti climbs up the ladder and Metze, after seeing that the rather decrepit ladder is able to hold Basti's weight, does so, too.

Basti steps up to the wooden railing and leans on it. The sight from here is idyllic – the little village with the hotel in the middle, nestling into the meadows and fields around, the sky now a dusty blue, darkening by the minute, and as a counterpoint, more and more tiny windows light up in a warm yellow. The trees around them rustle quietly, adding to the slight chirping of crickets. A nightingale warbles her lovely singsong.

Metze steps up beside Basti. "It's beautiful here." "Yes," Basti answers quietly, still looking out onto the idyll, "it's my favorite place now. When I was little, I sometimes climbed up here and imagined that I could see the whole sky from here. But I was just a little boy, what did I know?" "Quite a lot, I'd say," Metze says. Basti turns to him, looking at him – and there are so many questions in his eyes and Metze knows that he can't possibly answer all of them; but he does have this one answer and so his lips touch Basti's while his fingers trace the strong line of his neck, up to the curve of his ear and behind.

It's a gentle kiss, so very different from the heatedpassionate kisses earlier that day. Metze enjoys the bristles of the hair brushing against his palm, all his senses attuned to the man in front of him who had, at one point of his life, meant more than the world to him – and whether he still does, that's the million dollar question. Basti's replying to the kiss readily enough, their tongues stroking each other, mapping each other's mouth while he takes his sweet time sliding his hands underneath the thin t-shirt Metze's wearing under his woolen sweater, teasing him with every inch that his fingers gain, smoothing over his skin, stoking the low fire building in Metze's groin.

He wants to enjoy it, to take it slowly, but his body is of a different opinion and before he realizes it, he's crowding Basti, his hands roaming all over him, not getting enough of him. Basti's hand slides around to his belly, twisting slightly in what little space there is between their bodies. A button is popped, and another, and then Metze moans as Basti's sure hand palms his cock in the boxers, rubbing slightly, and the slight friction of the cotton provides a most delicious feeling and Metze groans, bucking up into Basti's hand.

"I've missed this," Basti whispers into his ear, warm breath fanning over Metze's neck, pulling the boxers down and the cool evening air brushes over his cock, making him shudder slightly. Then Basti's hotsticky hand is back, and he hasn't forgotten the way Metze loves it, a steady rhythm that builds up, with that slight twist at the end, and he clutches at Basti's biceps, not used to that onslaught of searingblinding sensations anymore, feeling his knees go weak.

Suddenly he's pinned against one of the posts of the stand, the hard wood cutting into his bare back, and he winces, but when Basti resumes the handjob, he's not even noticing the splinters pricking his skin, too busy adjusting to the sight of Basti jerking him off, the slickness of his precome helping matters considerably. He shuts his eyes, this indescribable feeling making knots in his midst, drawing them in tighter and tighter until it's a hothard ball of want, achytight – and then he's shouting out into the night air, knees buckling, and Basti can just catch him in time, holding him upright. Metze raises a hand shakily, tracing Basti's jaw, and then their mouths meet. It's a slow kiss, tongues stroking, sated, and meanwhile Basti's cleaning them up, gentlewarm touches, righting Metze's clothes, and he just lets it happen, lets Basti care for him, something he hasn't experienced in a long time. And just like the fairy tale of the frog prince, it feels as if an iron ring that had held his heart in a grip for an eternity is breaking and falling to the floor, the hollow clank audible to his ears, and Basti's so _warm_.

They stand like that for a long time, kissing, slowly being enveloped in inky darkness. Then Basti gently untangles himself from Metze, his hand sliding down Metze's arm, and their fingers mesh shortly before he turns and steps to the blackness of the stand's back.

"Thanks to the local youth," Basti says, and Metze can hear him smiling, "there's always a surplus of necessities for nightly outings," and produces from an invisible corner several blankets, some rather threadbare, but spread on top of each other they make a surprisingly comfortable makeshift mattress, as Metze notices when he's lying next to Basti.

The Hessian's eyes glitter in the pale moonlight, now as dark as the night creeping up on them, but his face is washed in pale moonlight, and as the tip of his tongue sneaks out to wet his lips, Metze trails a finger along his face's contours, not saying a word.

It's not that he doesn't want to say anything. On the contrary, there is so much that he wants to say, that he wants Basti to know; but it's painfully clear to him that he has already run out of time to do so, and maybe there never was enough time, never would be. And that words would never ever be sufficient; instead, they'd be weighted and measured and would be found wanting. Always.

But as the darkness obliterates their surroundings, their faces just pale shadows, they start to talk. They talk about their personal fears, their hopes, the things that they long for… as much as they dare to reveal without destroying the fragile peace that has built up between them, cloaking and softening the untouchable shadows of their past.

"Why did you stop?" Metze asks, gently carding through Basti's hair, feeling the soft hair glide through his fingers.

"Why?" Basti laughs. It isn't a pleasant sound, and his eyebrows furrow slightly. Metze just nods.

"Well… you know when the BVB won?" Basti asks. "That wasn't easy to miss," Metze smiles wryly. That smile is mirrored by Basti. "Well, I stopped – because you didn't come." Metze stills any movement, not daring to believe the words that just came out of Basti's mouth.

"You wanted to know," Basti says, quietly. But Metze hears the slightly accusatory tone that has crept into Basti's voice. After seconds that felt like hours, staring quietly into Basti's eyes that never wavered, he says, "It would have hurt too much."

"That it did," is the reply.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Metze sighs. "I just…"

" – wanted to forget, right?" Basti just knows him too well. Smiling sadly, Metze nods.

"I tried." _But here I am_, is the unspoken answer that hovers in the air between them.

"Yes, that I can see."

*

Basti delegates some of his not-so-pressing duties to his staff and by and by Metze's feeling whole again. Basti says to him, smiling slightly, "Your smile crinkles around your eyes." He touches Metze's face gently, "That hasn't changed."

*

They have to be careful around the hotel staff and the guests, so the only place where they can be themselves is room no. 41. Basti never takes Metze downstairs to his live-in apartment, but Metze doesn't ask. Doesn't want to. This room is theirs, a memory rekindled, and he's happy when he has Basti in his arms, pliant, sweat-sheened. Happy enough for the moment, at least.

He's now living from moment to moment; collecting and hoarding each one.

*

A little boy – not older than four or five – walks up to them when they're sitting down for dinner, blushing and squeaking out a request for an autograph. Basti complies readily, asking the little boy's name – Klaus – and scribbles 'Für Klaus – mit den besten Wünschen, Sebastian Kehl' on the faded soccer picture of him in his Borussia Dortmund trikot. Metze watches the little exchange with a small smile on his lips, but when the boy turns to him and holds out the picture to him, he asks, "Me too?" surprised. At the boy's fervent nod, he shrugs, taking the biro that Basti offers him and scrawls 'Christoph Metzelder' underneath Basti's signature.

"Take care of this one, Klaus," Basti smiles, "it may well be worth a fortune." The little boy smiles broadly, squeaks out a "Dankeschön!" and runs back to where his parents sit, smiling and nodding at them.

"You're back on your road to fame, Christoph," Basti says, sipping his wine.

"Not bloody likely," Metze says. "But how did he recognize me? He's too young to have seen me playing."

"There's something I should have shown you already," Basti says, grinning. "After dinner, yes?" Metze nods, wondering what this could be.

*

Photographs. An entire wall full of them in the entertaining room; depicting Basti's career, at Freiburg, then at Dortmund, at the national squad. Basti on the balcony, his arm around Metze, celebrating their vice championship in 2002, him tackling Metze for the ball, standing next to each other in the line-up, and there's also the big poster advertising the World Cup – the two of them with Rosický, and Metze has to wince at the abominable get-up he was in – the trousers! There are pictures of all the Borussia players Basti has known, and his picture is there, too, right next to Basti's, and it's strange, seeing a younger copy of himself smiling at him from behind glass, not knowing yet that his soccer career will end in less than three years.

He's tracing the frame, unconsciously, while Basti stands next to him, silent.

*

He knew that it wouldn't have lasted forever, this eerie peace they've built for themselves in these three days; but he had wanted to believe in it enough that he told Basti he'd stay on for a week more. Basti had kissed him breathless, hands roaming wildly over his body, and Metze had reciprocated in kind, sensing the desperate hope mirrored in their bodies straining to be touched; they'd just need a bit more time, just a bit _more_ and it'd be all right again and…

But that's unmistakably Tina standing at the reception, and Metze can hear her chatter, and suddenly everything around him seems fake, as if he has stepped into a mirror world where everything's just that bit wrong, just that bit askew. If you look straight at it, you don't notice it, but if you turn your head… oh _yes_. And the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen is the appropriate soundtrack – disjointed, harsh and out of rhythm.

The receptionist looks up at him, saying something to Tina that Metze can't make out, and he forces himself to continue down the steps, watching her turn and, at seeing him, knitting her brows, obviously trying to remember him. But then she steps towards him, smiling, having recognized him, and he takes her proffered hand. Warmdry, and she's saying something that he didn't catch, but he replies, "Yes, nice to meet you again." Empty hollow phrases, meaning nothing and everything at the same time.

"Have you seen my husband?"

"He's upstairs, in my room," Metze says, not wanting to lie, but he's distracting from the truth. Namely that Basti's currently occupying his shower to clean himself up as it's rather too small for two grown men to occupy at the same time and go about their business comfortably. But to enjoy themselves pressing together tightly, Metze buried in Basti, silencing the latter's gasps and moans with his mouth, grasping his arse, heaving him upwards with every thrust… for this purpose it's just the perfect shower. Too late he realizes that she'll see the truth as soon as Basti gets downstairs; and rightly her eyes widen when she sees her… _husband_, who has stopped on the stairs, clearly not expecting to see her standing next to Metze.

"Tina," Basti says, apparently having overcome the initial shock and now taking the stairs one by one, "has something happened?" He doesn't hug her or even give her the obligatory kiss as Tina approaches him, Metze notes. He's watching the unfolding scene with curious detachment; it is as if he were sitting in a theatre, watching random people go onstage and say what they have to say, do what they have to do, and he's in the dark, an impassioned onlooker, not belonging up there nor anywhere.

Tina's light voice carries over to his ear and it is tinged with some underlying emotion that Metze cannot identify. She hasn't changed much since Basti introduced her to him, back when they still were just friends – or were still under the impression that they were just friends. He tries not to listen to what she's saying, but he can't help himself – something about an Andy who's ill and she's going to fetch him from her parents' and get him to the doctor; it isn't anything serious. Suddenly Metze realizes that she's talking about her and Basti's son, Andreas Kehl, who has to be almost three now. He has seen the pictures of Basti and Tina and their son at his christening, in some random gossip magazine that he had picked up while waiting for his yearly inspection at the dentist's – and he gets the same sick feeling that made him drop the magazine to the floor, not wanting to believe it.

Turning to the reception desk, he signals to the blonde girl – Karin is her name – and quietly asks her to search for a train connection from Fulda to Dortmund and to call a cab to get him to the station in time. She nods, gives him a quick smile and turns to the notebook in front of her, calling up the necessary sites.

*

The cab will arrive in half an hour, and now he's standing on the balcony, breathing in the clean air, scented with grass and forest, the sun warming his back. His bag is packed, next to his bed. The door opens with a click and he doesn't even turn, knowing full well who it is.

"Didn't you want to stay longer?"

Metze looks at his – yes, what is Basti now to him? A sweethurting memory of a past life – always with that tugging ache, always with the thought that 'if only…', which will be interwoven with the memories of them together in better, simpler times.

"Yes," he simply says, adding, "I've got to go." He doesn't want to waste his time with superfluous excuses or painful explanations.

"Is this what it'll be like?" Basti says, in a low but passionate voice, "that you're going to turn up whenever you want and turn me and my life into a… mess? I don't know whether I'm coming or going when I'm with you; I don't know what to do now, I… " and here Metze puts his hand on Basti's mouth, feeling the lips press against his fingers, gentling the outburst.

"I don't know either," he says, letting his fingers trace the contours of Basti's lips gently, "only that I just had to come. I won't return. You have my promise on that." He doesn't give his promises lightly and Basti knows that. "So this is it?" he says, his eyes intently searching Metze's for another unspoken promise, given a long time ago – but it's now buried under endless minefields, set to go off at the lightest touch, and Metze's afraid to go there, so he just replies, "We've got our lives to live."

"And we can't be part of each other's life anymore; is that what you're saying?" demands Basti.

"_I_ can't," Metze says, and here's at least a part of the often-hid truth, dragged out from beneath the cover of friendship. But now theirs has grown brittle and threadbare and the time that they have spent together this weekend hasn't rewoven it; it has just shown them how much there still is – not enough.

Basti nods. "How did we ever end up like this, eh?" and Metze mirrors his sad smile, shrugging helplessly. "That's life."

"Do you know the saying: 'When life gives you a lemon, make lemonade out of it', or something like that?" Basti asks.

"I remember it as, 'When life gives you a lemon, make lemonade out of it and throw it into the person's face that gave it to you and demand the orange you asked for all along,'" Metze says.

Basti's mouth quirks up in a slight smile that is gone immediately and he says, "I bet there aren't any oranges left for us anymore." Metze suddenly thinks of his house, comfortable but empty, a shell of something that has been lost, and there's this hotburning feeling around his eyes. Then Basti's there, burrowing his face into Metze's woolen jumper, his arms around Metze like an iron vise, and it _hurts_, but it's a good hurt, and Metze clings to Basti's slightstrong frame, imprinting to memory the feeltouchsense of his body – and everything else: the slight shuddersobs, the hitched breathing muffled by the wool, and their heartbeats that sound so very loud in the silence of the room.

How long they stand there, Metze doesn't know, holding onto each other for dear life as if somehow, inexplicably, they'll wake up as their younger selves and will be shuddering and laughing and promising each other to never let themselves end up like this; but at the same time it's unfairly _real_, and then Metze slowly lets go, detangling himself from Basti, and he can't bear to look him in the eyes to see his own pain reflected there, so he just grabs his bag and turns to the door.

Nothing has been resolved, nothing patched up or forgiven or remade. But then, Metze hadn't expected anything else, realistically; he even got more than he expected. His dreams are another thing entirely, though. He's grown up enough to realize that he can't have everything handed to him on a silver platter; he's learned that lesson the hard way in the past few years.

He closes the door to the room, holding onto the coolmetallic handle just that bit longer than necessary. At the reception desk he slides the key with a folded 20-Euro-note across to Karin and nods smiling at the surprised "Danke schön!"

As he steps outside, the cab arrives just in time. It isn't the same driver as before, but an equally disgruntled one, just muttering a "Guddag" as he heaves Metze's bag into the back. Just when Metze's about to open the side door, he hears a "Wait!" and stops, cursing himself at the same time for doing so.

"Stealing away like a thief?" Basti's standing there, his eyes still reddish, but Metze only sees a quiet remorse in them.

"Only when circumstances make it necessary," Metze replies, a bit sharper than he intended to and he sees a flicker in Basti's eyes.

"So that was it?"

"Yes," Metze says. He can't answer it better than this – and to properly answer the whole messed-up issue, it'd take words that don't exist yet, words that have only been conveyed by touches and looks.

"But," he says, "if you ever want to, phone me. My number's on the back – it's private," and hands Basti one of his business cards, having scrawled his number on the back when he was alone once in the room, waiting for Basti to come, "and don't make any promises you can't keep."

"I can try," Basti says.

And because the cab driver is waiting and people are strolling by, walking around them, their last kiss has to be the sloppywetexhausted one in the shower and so he just nods and holds out his hand to shake.

Basti stares at it as if it's something he has never seen before – and then he pulls him into a hard, bone-crushing hug. "Don't you dare disappear from my life ever again," he hears Basti whisper into his ear, and there's so much hurt in it.

"I can try," he echoes Basti's words and he doesn't really want to let go, doesn't want to go back to his silent and empty house, doesn't want to go without Basti's touch _ever_, but it's Basti who loosens their embrace this time. He notices that he hasn't breathed for the entire time Basti's arms held him, and now does so, gulping for air, breathing in essence de Sebastian Kehl, cleansharpsweet.

"Go," Basti says, and there's something glittering at the corner of his eye, "you don't want to miss your train" And then Metze's sliding into the cab seat, belt snapping into place, and Basti transforms quickly into a little figure in the rear window, getting smaller and smaller, not waving, just standing there, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets. And Metze can't help it if his cheeks feel wet.

Four days later, his cell rings.

*fin*


End file.
